The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company))

by Lloyd Alexander

  Perched on the back of Medwyn’s chair, an enormous eagle studied the crow. Beside the old man, the wolf Brynach sat on his haunches. Lean and gray, with yellow eyes, he wagged his tail and grinned up at the crow. A moment later, another wolf, smaller and with a white blaze on her breast, trotted in and crouched beside her mate.

  “Ah, Briavael,” said Medwyn. “Have you come to greet our visitor? Like his father, no doubt, he will have a bold tale to tell us.”

  Kaw spoke then in his own tongue which Medwyn easily understood. The old man’s features turned grave as he listened. When the crow had finished, Medwyn was silent for a time, deeply frowning. Brynach whined uneasily.

  “It is come,” Medwyn said heavily. “I should have so guessed, for I sense a strange fear among the animals. More and more find their way here, fleeing what they themselves only dimly know. They tell of Huntsmen abroad in force, and armed men. Now I understand the meaning of these tidings. The day I had ever feared has come upon us. Yet my valley cannot hold all who would seek refuge.”

  Medwyn’s voice had begun to rise like a wrathful gale. “The race of men face the slavery of Annuvin. So, too, the creatures of Prydain. In the shadow of the Land of the Dead, the nightingale’s song will choke and die. The galleries of badgers and moles will become prison houses. No beast, no bird, will roam or fly with the joy of a free heart. Those who are not slain—theirs will be the fate of the gwythaints, long ago made captive, tormented, broken, and their once-gentle spirits twisted to Arawn’s vile ends.”

  Medwyn turned to the eagle. “You, Edyrnion, fly swiftly to the mountain eyries of your kindred. Bid them rise up in all their strength and all their numbers.

  “You, Brynach, and you, Briavael,” he commanded, as the wolves pricked up their ears, “spread the alarm among your own brethren; among the bears, with paws to smite and arms to crush; among the sharp-antlered stags; and all forest dwellers, large and small.”

  Medwyn had risen to his full height. His hands clenched as tree roots clench the earth. The crow watched, awestruck and silent. Medwyn’s eyes flashed and his deep voice came as a wave of thunder.

  “Speak to them in my name and tell them: such are the words of one who built a ship when the dark waters flooded Prydain, of one who bore their ancient sires to safety. Now, against this flood of evil, each nest, each lair, must be a stronghold. Let every creature turn tooth, beak, and claw against all who serve Arawn Death-Lord.”

  Side by side, the wolves loped from the cottage. And the eagle took flight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Banner

  Light snow fell before the companions had journeyed a day from King Smoit’s castle, and by the time they reached the Valley of Ystrad the slopes were white-cloaked and ice had begun to sheathe the river. They forded while frozen splinters cut at the legs of their horses, and wended through the bleak Hill Cantrevs, pressing eastward toward the Free Commots. Of all the band, Gurgi suffered most grievously from the cold. Though bundled in a huge garment of sheepskin, the unhappy creature shivered wretchedly. His lips were blue, his teeth chattered, and ice droplets clung to his matted hair. Nevertheless, he kept pace at Taran’s side and his numbed hands did not loosen their grip on the banner.

  Days of harsh travel brought them across Small Avren to Cenarth, where Taran had chosen to begin the rallying of the Commot Folk. But even as he rode into the cluster of thatch-roofed cottages, he saw the village thronged with men; and among them Hevydd the Smith, barrel-chested and bristle-bearded, who shouldered his way through the crowd and clapped Taran on the back with a hand that weighed as much as one of his own hammers.

  “A good greeting to you, Wanderer,” called the Smith. “We saw you afar and gathered to welcome you.”

  “A good greeting to good friends,” Taran replied, “but I bring a stern task in exchange for a warm welcome. Hear me well,” he went on urgently. “What I ask is not asked lightly nor granted lightly: the strength of your hands and the courage of your hearts, and, if it must be, even your lives.”

  As the Commot Folk, murmuring, pressed around him, Taran spoke of what had befallen Gwydion and of the rising of Arawn. When he had finished, the men were grim-faced, and for a long moment all stood silent. Then Hevydd the Smith lifted his voice.

  “The folk of the Free Commots honor King Math and the House of Don,” he said. “But they will answer only to one they know as a friend, and follow him not in obligation but in friendship. And so let Hevydd be the first to follow Taran Wanderer.”

  “All follow! All!” cried the Commot men as with a single voice, and on the instant the once-peaceful Cenarth stirred like a gathering storm as each man hastened to arm himself.

  But Hevydd gave Taran and the companions a hard grin. “Our will is strong but our weapons lack,” he declared. “No matter, Wanderer. You toiled bravely in my smithy; now shall my smithy toil for you. And I will send word to every metalsmith in the Commot lands to labor as hard for you as I myself will do.”

  While the men readied their mounts and Hevydd set his forge to blazing, Taran led the companions to the neighboring Commots. His task became quickly known and each day brought its throng of herdsmen and farmers who needed no urging to march in the growing host following the banner of the White Pig. For Taran, days and nights merged into one another. In the marshaling camps, astride unflagging Melynlas he rode among the gatherings of peaceful men turned warriors, seeing to their provisions and equipment, and by the embers of watch fires held council with the new-formed war bands.

  When he had accomplished all he could at Cenarth, Hevydd rejoined Taran to serve as his master armorer.

  “You have done your work well, but we still go too lightly armed,” Taran said, speaking apart with the Smith. “I fear all the forges in Prydain will not be enough to serve our need. Somehow I must find a way …”

  “And so you shall, with luck!” called a voice.

  Taran turned to see a horseman who was riding up beside him, and blinked in surprise for this was the strangest-garbed of all the Commot warriors. The man was tall, lank-haired, with legs as spindly as a stork’s and so long they almost touched the ground on either side of his mount. Bits of iron and odds and ends of metal were stitched closely all over his jacket; he carried a wooden staff with a scythe blade at the end; on his head he wore what had once been a cook-pot, now worked and shaped into a makeshift helmet that sat so low on the man’s forehead it nearly covered his eyes.

  “Llonio!” Taran cried, warmly clasping the new arrival’s hand. “Llonio Son of Llonwen!”

  “None other,” answered Llonio, pushing back his peculiar headpiece. “Did you not suppose I’d be along sooner or later?”

  “But your wife and family,” Taran began. “I would not ask you to leave them. Why, of children I remember half-a-dozen.”

  “And another merrily on the way,” Llonio replied, grinning happily. “Perhaps twins, with my kind of luck. But my brood will be safe enough till I return. Indeed, if there is ever to be safety in Prydain I must follow the Wanderer now. But your concern is not babes in arms but men-at-arms. Hear me, friend Wanderer,” Llonio went on. “I have seen pitchforks and hay-rakes among the Commot Folk. Could not the tines be cut off and set in wooden shafts? Thus would you gain three, four, and even more weapons where you had only one to begin with.”

  “Why, so we could!” burst out Hevydd. “How did I not see that myself?”

  “No more did I,” admitted Taran. “Llonio sees more sharply than any of us, but calls luck what another would call keen wits. Go, friend Llonio, find what you can. I know you’ll find more than meets the eye.”

  As Llonio, with the help of Hevydd the Smith, gleaned the Commots for sickles, rakes, fire tongs, scythes, and pruning hooks, and found ways to make even the most unlikely objects serve a new purpose, the store of weapons grew.

  While each day Taran rallied followers in greater numbers, Coll, Gurgi, and Eilonwy helped load carts with gear and provisions, a task by no means to the li
king of the Princess, who was more eager to gallop from one Commot to the next than she was to plod beside the heavy-laden wagons. Eilonwy had donned men’s garments and braided her hair about her head; at her belt hung a sword and short dagger wheedled from Hevydd the Smith. Her warrior’s garb was illfitting, but she took pride in it and was therefore all the more vexed when Taran refused to let her go afield.

  “You’ll ride out with me,” Taran said, “as soon as the pack animals are tended and their loads secured.”

  The Princess reluctantly agreed; but next day, when Taran cantered past the horse lines at the rear of the camp, she furiously cried to him, “You’ve tricked me! These tasks will never be done! No sooner do I finish with one string of horses and carts than along come some more. Very well, I shall do as I promised. But war-leader or no, Taran of Caer Dallben, I’m not speaking to you!”

  Taran grinned and rode on.

  Bearing northward through the Valley of Great Avren, the companions entered Commot Gwenith and had scarcely dismounted when Taran heard a crackling voice call out, “Wanderer! I know you seek warriors, not crones. But tarry a moment and give a greeting to one who has not forgotten you.”

  Dwyvach, the Weaver-Woman of Gwenith, stood in her cottage doorway. Despite her white hair and wizened features she looked as lively and untired as ever. Her gray eyes scanned Taran sharply, then turned to Eilonwy. The ancient Weaver-Woman beckoned to her. “Taran Wanderer I know well enough. And who you may be I can guess well enough, even though you go in the guise of a man and your hair could stand a little washing.” She glanced shrewdly at the Princess. “Indeed, I was sure, when the Wanderer and I first met, that he had a pretty maiden in his thoughts.”

  “Humph!” Eilonwy sniffed. “I’m not sure if he did then, and even less sure if he does now.”

  Dwyvach chuckled. “If you are not, then no one else can be. Time will tell which of us is right. But meanwhile, child,” she added, unfolding a cloak she held in her withered hands and setting it about Eilonwy’s shoulders, “take this as a gift from a crone to a maiden, and know there is not so much difference between the two. For even a tottering granddam keeps a portion of girlish heart, and the youngest maiden a thread of old woman’s wisdom.”

  Taran had now come to the cottage door. He warmly greeted the Weaver-Woman and admired the cloak she had given Eilonwy. “Hevydd and the Commot smiths labor to make arms for us,” he said. “But warriors need warmth as much as weapons. Alas, we have no garments like this.”

  “Do you think a weaver-woman less hardy than a metalsmith?” Dwyvach replied. “As you wove patiently at my loom, now my loom will weave the more quickly for you. And in every Commot, shuttles will fly for the sake of Taran Wanderer.”

  Heartened by the Weaver-Woman’s promise, the companions departed from Gwenith. A short distance from the Commot, Taran caught sight of a small band of horsemen riding toward him at a quick pace. Leading them was a tall youth who shouted Taran’s name and raised a hand in greeting.

  With a glad cry Taran urged Melynlas to meet the riders. “Llassar!” Taran called, reining up beside the young man. “I did not think you and I would meet so far from your sheepfold in Commot Isav.”

  “Your news travels ahead of you, Wanderer,” Llassar replied. “But I feared you would deem our Commot too small and pass it by. It was I,” he added, with shy hesitation that could not altogether conceal his boyish pride, “it was I who led our folk to find you.”

  “The size of Isav is no measure of its courage,” Taran said, “and I need and welcome all of you. But where is your father?” he asked, glancing at the band of riders. “Where is Drudwas? He would not let his son journey so far without him.”

  Llassar’s face fell. “The winter took him from us. I grieve for him, but honor his memory by doing what he himself would have done.”

  “And what of your mother?” Taran asked, as he and Llassar trotted back to join the companions. “Was it her wish, too, that you leave home and flock?”

  “Others will tend my flock,” the young shepherd answered. “My mother knows what a child must do and what a man must do. I am a man,” he added stoutly, “and have been one since you and I stood against Dorath and his ruffians that night in the sheepfold.”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Gurgi. “And fearless Gurgi stood against them, too!”

  “I’m sure all of you did,” Eilonwy remarked sourly, “while I was curtsying and having my hair washed on Mona. I don’t know who Dorath is, but if I should ever meet him, I promise you I’ll make up for lost time.”

  Taran shook his head. “Count yourself lucky you don’t know him. I know him all too well, to my sorrow.”

  “He has not troubled us since that night,” said Llassar. “Nor will he likely trouble us again. I have heard he has left the Commot lands and roves westward. He has put his sword in the service of the Death-Lord, it is said. Perhaps it may be so. But if Dorath serves anyone, it is himself.”

  “Your service freely given counts more for us than any the Lord of Annuvin could hire,” Taran said to Llassar. “Prince Gwydion will be grateful to you.”

  “To you, rather,” said Llassar. “Our pride is not in fighting but in farming; in the work of our hands, not our blades. Never have we sought war. We come now to the banner of the White Pig because it is the banner of our friend, Taran Wanderer.”

  The weather worsened as the companions continued through the valley, and the growing host of Commot men forced them to travel at a slower pace. The days were too short for the work to be done, but Taran rode grimly on. Beside him galloped Coll, uncomplaining and ever cheerful. His broad face, reddened and roughened by cold and wind, was nearly hidden by the collar of a great fleece-lined jacket. A sword belt of heavy iron links bound his girth, and at his back hung a round shield of ox hide. He had found a helmet of beaten metal, but deemed it did not sit as comfortably on his bald crown as had his old leather cap.

  Taran was grateful for Coll’s wisdom and gladly sought his counsel. It was Coll who gave him the thought, as the marshaling camps grew crowded, to send smaller, swifter bands directly to Caer Dathyl rather than march from one Commot to the next with a force becoming ever more cumbersome. Llassar, Hevydd, and Llonio would not leave Taran’s vanguard and stayed ever close at hand; but when Taran wrapped himself in a cloak and stretched on the frozen ground for rare moments of sleep, it was Coll who stood watch over him.

  “You are the oaken staff I lean on,” Taran said. “More than that.” He laughed. “You are the whole sturdy tree, and a true warrior.”

  Coll, instead of beaming, looked wryly at him. “Do you mean to honor me?” he asked. “Then say, rather, I am a true grower of turnips and a gatherer of apples. No warrior whatever, save that I am needed thus for a while. My garden longs for me as much as I long for it,” Coll added. “I left it unready for winter, and for that I will pay a sorry reckoning at spring planting.”

  Taran nodded. “We shall dig and weed together, true grower of turnips—and true friend.”

  The watch fires flickered in the night. The horses stirred in their lines. About them, a mass of deep shadows, dark against darkness, lay sleeping warriors. The chill wind cut at Taran’s face. He was suddenly weary to the marrow of his bones. He turned to Coll.

  “My heart, too, will be easier,” he said, “when I am once more an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”

  Word reached Taran that King Smoit had raised a strong host among the cantrev lords and was now turning northward. The companions learned, too, that certain of Arawn’s liege men had sent war parties across Ystrad to harass the columns marching to Caer Dathyl. Taran’s task thus grew more urgent, but he could do no more than press onward with all haste.

  The companions made their way to Commot Merin. For Taran, it had been among the fairest he had known in all his wanderings. Even now, amid the tumult of warriors arming, of neighing horses and shouting riders, the white, thatched cottages of the little village seemed to stand peaceful and apart. Taran galloped
past the common fields ringed by hemlocks and tall firs. His heart laden with memories, he reined up at a familiar hut, whose smoking chimney betokened a warm fire within. The door opened and out stepped a stocky, hale old man garbed in a coarse, brown robe. His iron-gray hair and beard were cropped short; his eyes were blue and undimmed.

  “Well met,” he called to Taran, and raised a huge hand crusted with dried clay. “You left us a wanderer, and return to us a war-leader. As for your skill in the latter, I have heard much. But I ask: Have you forgotten your skill at my potter’s wheel? Or have I wasted my own to teach you?”

  “Well met, Annlaw Clay-Shaper,” Taran answered, swinging down from Melynlas and fondly clasping the old potter’s hand. “Wasted, in truth,” Taran laughed, following him into the hut, “for the master had a clumsy apprentice. My skill lacks, but not my memory. What little I could learn, I have not forgotten.”

  “Show me then,” challenged the potter, scooping a handful of wet clay from a wooden trough.

  Taran smiled sadly and shook his head. “I halted only to give you greeting,” he replied. “Now I labor with swords, not earthen bowls.” Nevertheless, he paused. The hearth light glowed on shelves and rows of pottery, of graceful wine jars, of ewers handsomely and lovingly crafted. Quickly he took the cool clay and cast it upon the wheel which Annlaw had begun to spin. Time pressed him too closely, Taran knew; yet, as the work took form under his hands, for a moment he put down the burden of his other task. The days turned back and there was only the whirring of the wheel and the shape of the vessel born from the shapeless clay.